By every gud and bawk marling over drung, bawn and blue drop, I resolve to shive four hours off the night and keep writing long past midnight, no matter what lewerdly boo wants to whisper pishogues in my ear or pelt me with guilty waddocks, this angishore is sick of early to bed and early to rise just because she's mothered a brood of merrybegot nuzzle-tripes wailing all day long at her that they're hungry and she's supposed to find a fish in the droke and fry it up for them when what she should be doing is getting her yaffle of stories ready for the next bloody Pulitzer.

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